CAN WE DO BETTER?

Three times a week I ride the train to Miami for dance lessons. It’s part of my rhythm now—dance bag and work bag slung over shoulders, body heading toward something that feels joyful and still fundamental to me even in this season of life.

Along the way, we pass a cemetery.

It’s impossible to miss. Stark white crosses stretch out in careful rows, rising from grass so green it hardly looks real. Each cross marking a life that once felt vast and urgent and never-ending—until it wasn’t.

At first, I thought what drew my eye was the beauty of it. The stillness. The care. But I think it’s something deeper. Death has always lived close enough to my life to keep me paying attention. And lately, as I pass that cemetery twice a day, three days a week, it feels less like scenery and more like a quiet invitation.

I find myself wondering:

Did each person buried there feel they answered the call placed on their life?

Did they leave anything undone—love unexpressed, forgiveness withheld, treasures not explored?

Is there something they understand now, in the presence of the Diviine, that they wish they had trusted sooner?

I’m not asking these questions with fear. I’m asking them with reverence.

Because at this point in life perspective is shifting. The striving has softened. The performance layers fallen away. What remains is a longing to live in alignment—to spend the days not just productively, but faithfully. To recognize that time itself is not just passing, but a gift in itself.

These questions have been reshaping how I think about my days as I move through another transition. They’ve made me more attentive. More willing to listen. Less interested in delay when something feels quietly, insistently true and keeps waking me up in the middle of the night reaching for my pad to make sure it can be returned to in the morning light.

So I offer the three questions above to you—not as something to solve, but something to sit with.

What might change if you asked these questions in prayer, or in stillness, or on a long walk where the Divine has room to answer?

What becomes clearer when you stop filling every moment and allow space for an answer that you’re not generating.

We may not know how long we have. But we’re not exactly lost, either. There’s something inside us—call it conscience, call it God, call it the still small voice—that keeps nudging us toward what feels right, true, and necessary.

And perhaps that’s the real question underneath it all: 

Are we listening well enough to live the life we were given?